'They did Siegmund,' she said.
'Ah!' he exclaimed.
'I remember they had for a long time a little brown dog that followed
him home.' 'Ah!' he exclaimed.
'I remember, too,' she said, 'a little black-and-white kitten that
followed me. Mater _would not_ have it in--she would not. And I remember
finding it, a few days after, dead in the road. I don't think I ever
quite forgave my mater that.' 'More sorrow over one kitten brought to destruction than over all the
sufferings of men,' he said.
She glanced at him and laughed. He was smiling ironically.
'For the latter, you see,' she replied, 'I am not responsible.' As they neared the top of the hill a few spots of rain fell.
'You know,' said Helena, 'if it begins it will continue all night. Look
at that!' She pointed to the great dark reservoir of cloud ahead.
'Had we better go back?' he asked.
'Well, we will go on and find a thick tree; then we can shelter till we
see how it turns out. We are not far from the cars here.' They walked on and on. The raindrops fell more thickly, then thinned
away.
'It is exactly a year today,' she said, as they-walked on the round
shoulder of the down with an oak-wood on the left hand. 'Exactly!' 'What anniversary is it, then?' he inquired.
'Exactly a year today, Siegmund and I walked here--by the day, Thursday.
We went through the larch-wood. Have you ever been through the
larch-wood?' 'No.' 'We will go, then,' she said.
'History repeats itself,' he remarked.
'How?' she asked calmly.
He was pulling at the heads of the cocksfoot grass as he walked.
'I see no repetition,' she added.
'No,' he exclaimed bitingly; 'you are right!' They went on in silence. As they drew near a farm they saw the men
unloading a last wagon of hay on to a very brown stack. He sniffed the
air. Though he was angry, he spoke.
'They got that hay rather damp,' he said. 'Can't you smell it--like hot
tobacco and sandal-wood?' 'What, is that the stack?' she asked.
'Yes, it's always like that when it's picked damp.' The conversation was restarted, but did not flourish. When they turned
on to a narrow path by the side of the field he went ahead. Leaning over
the hedge, he pulled three sprigs of honeysuckle, yellow as butter, full
of scent; then he waited for her. She was hanging her head, looking in
the hedge-bottom. He presented her with the flowers without speaking.
She bent forward, inhaled the rich fragrance, and looked up at him over
the blossoms with her beautiful, beseeching blue eyes. He smiled
gently to her.